One Winged Angel
by Dark Reaper
Summary: It begins with Vincent before Nibelheim. It tells of the mission that will lead him down that fateful path. Hojo is introduced and his madness explored. Vincent's story will fade away as Sephiroth rises from the shadow of Midgar.(Closed)


There was a light at the end of the tunnel. An interesting way of starting a story isn't it? So often that axiom is used to describe the end, that is, death. Death is supposed to be the end isn't it?   
  
So to begin a story as death begins…such a thing is practically a contradiction, and yet…  
  
However, in this case the axiom cannot be applied, at least not in any normal sense for the light is not leading to death, but to life. It is leading to lives that will exist in death. It is leading to a dying world that might yet live. Now there are some real contradictions for you. The light grows brighter…  
  
The train's shrill whistle tore through the noonday routine of the businesses and restaurants along the main Sector 2 thoroughfare. The smell of culture was about the place. One could smell the fine cooking being prepared by expert chefs for the nightly extravaganzas to be held in fancy bistros and private manors.   
  
Street-side cafes were steadily filling with the crème of the social crop. It was lunch hour after all and most Shinra employees preferred the luxurious culinary experience of Sector 2 to the drab cafeteria back at HQ. Besides, Shrina employees got a special lunch discount.   
  
From the mansions to the law offices, one would never suspect that directly below this land of cultured opulence lay the slums of the forgotten. It was from there that this train came.  
  
The station was not very busy at this hour. Shinra employees did not need to use the train to go to lunch, and chances were that if you didn't work for Shinra, you had no business being in Sector 2.  
  
It was a bit of a mystery why there was a daily round-trip train ride to the slums anyway. The untouchables from below were not even allowed onto the train and you can bet that no one from the upper plate wanted to go down into the slums anytime soon. Yet the option had to exist for some reason, and so the train ran its course once every day. It went down in the morning and came back up in the evening. The fact that it was arriving in the middle of the Sector 2 lunch hour spoke volumes. It told the people whose lunch had been rudely interpreted that they did not want to know why the train was there or who was on it. You see, when you grow up in Midgar you learn to mind your own business where Shinra is involved. Those few people who couldn't seem to mind their own business usually had two options: go into hiding in the slums, or "disappear". It was obvious that Shinra was heavily involved in this little stunt, and so the people acted accordingly by feigning blindness and deafness.  
  
With a loud squeal of metal on metal the steel wheels began to slow and then stopped. The train laid there, smoking and steaming like some monstrous beast breathing in and out, full of possibilities, most of them dangerous. The majority of the lunch patrons got back to their meals, but a few could not resist spying a little.  
  
From the covered awnings, from behind the fake potted plants, those few who wanted something extra to gossip about at that night's social gathering could see a single man descend the metal grated steps from the train onto the marble-tiled station tarmac. The man was tall, probably a little over 6'2. His skin was milk white and was stretched, not tightly, but firmly over the man's thin, almost feminine face. His hands were the same pale white, the fingers long and nimble. The man was wearing an expensive, dark blue, silk, pin-stripe suit that fit snuggly over his lean and athletic frame. For all his confidence and obvious power, this stranger might have been no more than an influential lawyer. However, his eyes and poise told a different story.   
  
The eyes, light brown in color, had a sharp edge about them that one does not see in any but the most ruthless of businessmen. They had a gaze that made you feel as though your worth as a living, breathing human was being seriously assessed. The way the man moved suggested that you wanted very much to be useful if you wanted to remain living and breathing. His motions were those of a graceful and deadly animal, like a bandersnatch or a blood taste. Although you could not see it for the suit, his body, though thin, was extremely powerful and well-muscled. Everything about the man gave him an aura of danger…danger wrapped in silk.   
  
Over all this was a head of jet black hair. The man had let his hair grow out a bit in a style that was a few years old…not that anyone was going to tell him.  
  
The man was a Turk. This fact was obvious. The people could see it in him. They began to try harder to sink into the background.   
  
The heels of the Turk's custom leather shoes clicked softly on the tiled floor as he made his way from the train to the station's exit. Eyes began to be diverted as brains decided that life itself was not worth a piece of juicy gossip.  
  
The Turk continued unmolested out of the station and into the main street. He walked quietly and upright down the road, the soft café music masking his footsteps. No one else was in the road, not even cars were being driven at that time of day, so the man had the entire lane all to himself. His eyes roved about, taking in everything, especially the people. He could see how they put so much effort into not looking at him. He could hear how conversations had ended abruptly, many in mid-sentence. He almost smiled with enjoyment, but he'd been trained better than that, and so his face remained as stoic as granite.   
  
At a corner the Turk stopped and, with a quick look about, walked straight into one of the curbside restaurants. It had great big windows in the front so that the interior was all well lit. The floor was colored tile set in a huge mosaic pattern. The walls were wood paneled all the way up and were filled with shelves displaying pieces that must have been considered art, though the Turk had to wonder about the mental capacity of the person who had done the considering.   
  
The actual restaurant was long and narrow with only one lane separating rows of wooden and plush leather booths that lined both walls. A door was open in the back, allowing one to see into the kitchen. The restaurant was about half full when the man walked in, but the Turk had no trouble finding what he was looking for.   
  
There was a man sitting alone in a booth near the very back. The Turk walked up to him.  
  
"Hello Vincent," said the man to the newcomer.  
  
"Fine Martin," replied the Turk, whose name was in fact Vincent.  
  
"Did you have a pleasant trip?" asked Martin pleasantly.   
  
Martin Bjor was originally from Icicle Village, this much was clear to even the most casual of observer. His blond hair and blue eyes told of his northern heritage more than any genealogy could. He'd been born on the Northern Continent before his family moved to Midgar to seek jobs. Martin could only speculate on whether his parents would approve of his current line of work or not because they'd been murdered three days after they arrived. Now he was the head of the Turks, a position he never actually asked for because it had been more or less forced upon him with the untimely passing of the former leader. Martin had always preferred the field work, and the chance to get out and do something physical for once was more exhilarating that he'd expected. He just hoped that Vincent wouldn't see his intense excitement.   
  
Martin himself was shorter than Vincent, but also stockier. His hair was cut in the same simple comb over fashion that he'd adopted years ago and never changed. Martin also sported a short blond beard which he groomed immaculately. However, where as Vincent had a face that could get waitresses to literally trip over themselves in a rush to serve him, Martin's features were very homely and not in any way memorable. To say that he was ugly would be going too far, but he certainly was not handsome.  
  
"An excellent trip," replied Vincent.  
  
"So," said Martin as he folded his hands on the table, "what did you find?"  
  
"It was our sources said. There appears to be a new group forming."  
  
A frown crossed Martin's face.   
  
"Was that it?" he asked.  
  
"No," replied Vincent, "but the man I was given to interrogate was only a lackey, he knew almost nothing of importance."  
  
"Then why are we here?" asked Martin, "Why did your message tell me to meet you in such a public place?"  
  
The two could see the restaurant quickly emptying around them. People just did not seem to feel comfortable around Turks, a feeling that the Turks only tried to cultivate.  
  
"I told you to meet me here," said Vincent, "because the man knew mostly nothing, that is not to say that knowledge was not there…even if it was not evident to the owner."  
  
Martin had learned to trust Vincent over the years and so he remained patient, giving Vincent the "please continue" look.  
  
"The guy had apparently been on several forays to find phone numbers, addresses, and personal schedules for a group of individuals," continued Vincent, taking the hint. "Two individuals to be exact: Heidegger and yourself."  
  
Martin leaned back in his seat smiling maniacally as he crossed his arms.  
  
"If they want to start a war with the Turks they'd better be ready to play with the big dogs," Martin replied confidently.  
  
"I think it's more than that sir," replied Vincent. "My interrogation provided information that suggests that this new group is planning on winning before a war can even begin."  
  
Martin whistled softly.   
  
"Assassination then?" he asked.  
  
"I think so sir," said Vincent. "If what the man said was reliable, the group has everything they need to take out two Shinra executives."  
  
"You forget," said Martin, "that they're going after more than just a pair of suits. Heidegger was a Turk too…but that was before your time."  
  
By now there was no sound in the tiny restaurant except for the soothing tones a violin recording playing in the background and the bustle of a couple of chefs in the kitchen.  
  
"I understand sir," replied Vincent, "but these guys are acting like professionals, that's why we're here."  
  
"Explain," said Martin.  
  
"These guys are acting like they actually know what they're doing, which makes them dangerous right?"  
  
Martin nodded his consent. Most of these paramilitary teams popping up in rebellion against Shinra were little more than a bunch of fanatical tree huggers. They had no real working knowledge of how guerilla tactics worked or how one might use espionage to their advantage. It was becoming an annoying chore for the Turks to clean out these groups one by one as they surfaced, so the fact that one of them was showing some shadow of professionalism was at first a little scary and at the same time a welcome change.  
  
"However," said Vincent, "there's no way that any of them have anything amounting to actual experience…at least not in the field doing a job."  
  
"Ah," said Martin, "a trap?"  
  
"Exactly," replied Vincent. "The last thing that the man told me before his unfortunate death was that this group had a lot of contacts in Sector 2 upper plate. So, I simply made my entrance as public as possible. With any luck the group already knows that you're here. To have one of their targets in such an open and public area should be all too tempting. They'll strike if we're lucky, and then we should have them."  
  
Martin nodded, "its good plan, I assume you've already put men into position."  
  
"Yes," said Vincent, "I have three snipers in position up and down the street and two assault teams in place. The two teams are made up of four 1st class SOLDIERs being led by a Turk. Then of course, there's you and me."  
  
"Looks like you've got everything set," Martin commented. "By the way, I never asked, did you catch the name of this new group?"  
  
"They call themselves AVALANCHE," said Vincent.  
  
The conversation ended as a new presence made itself known.  
  
Both men looked up at the stranger, a young woman in a waitress outfit. She was very pretty in that big-eyed, innocent sort of way.  
  
"May I take your orders?" she asked in a sweet, almost school-girlish sort of way. She flashed both of them a bright smile and sidled up closer to the table.   
  
Vincent knew that people at these places were paying big gil for good food and good service, but this waitress seemed to acting overly nice. "Is she coming onto me?" Vincent asked himself. It wouldn't be the first time this had happened, but he was fairly sure that she wasn't his type.  
  
"Sure," said Vincent, trying to be nice. Still, there wasn't something quite right about this girl.  
  
"Yes," said Martin, "but before you go for that gun in your apron I want you to ask yourself this one simple question: is it worth it?"  
  
Vincent was taken aback, the waitress seemed more so.  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about sir," she said in a hurt sort of way. "I was just going to get my notebook, see?" She reached for the pocket in the apron tied around her waist, but her wrist was suddenly gripped by Martin. She struggled for a moment, but the muscles in Martin's hand were like steel, and nothing she could do was going to make them move.  
  
"Please sir," she said, "you're hurting me."  
  
Martin pulled her down so that her face was level with his and so that their noses were almost touching.  
  
"Now," he said, "I will ask you this question one more time: is going for that gun worth your life?"  
  
"But I don't have a gun!" insisted the girl once again, this time she was practically in hysterics, but not, Vincent thought, because she was being falsely accused. Her eyes were those of a wounded animal that's finally been cornered by the hunters.  
  
Vincent reached out and slipped his hand into the pocket. There was something cold and smooth…and obviously metal. He pulled out a small six-shot Protector, the smaller cousin to the more popular Peacemaker.  
  
The woman went limp, and then she started crying.  
  
"Is anyone else coming?" asked Martin forcibly.  
  
The woman just shook her head and kept on crying.  
  
Martin sighed, "Better go call in one of the teams to take her into custody. We'll question her back at HQ"  
  
Vincent got up and headed out to signal the all-clear.  
  
It was near midnight before Vincent staggered into his modest home in a Sector 3 apartment complex. The glow of street lamps left ghostly shadows across the bare walls.   
  
The building was an older one, made completely of brick. The walls of Vincent's apartment were made of the same material, the floor was wood.   
  
His was a two room one bath apartment. There was a large living space which served as Vincent's kitchen, home office, living room, dinning room, and bedroom. He had a bathroom and a closet which both led off of this main room. There was also a second room which normally would have served as a bedroom, but which Vincent had refurbished as a sort of home gym (he couldn't stand to train where people could see him). This was the only room that ever saw much use. Vincent preferred to eat out, he never worked at home, he never just sat around his apartment, and half the time he ended up sleeping in his office back at Shinra HQ. When he did go home it was usually only for a quick exercise session and a shower, shave, and other hygienic necessities.   
  
As you walked into his apartment, one might see to the right a large set of windows spanning the entire length of the wall. They'd been put there by the landlord because he thought that they made the rooms nicer by giving the occupants a view. "A view of what?" Vincent had to wonder to himself. It was not as if Midgar was the most photogenic of cities. Although no one with a healthy respect for their own lives would say it, Midgar was really one huge trash heap. Sure there were places like Sector 1 upper plate. The Sector 3 and 7 upper plates were pretty nice as well. But around 80% of Midgar's population lived in abject poverty. The lower plates were literally filled with a network of hundreds of slums and ghettos, both big and small, all interconnected among the massive piles of garbage and scrap metal.   
  
For years Midgar the people of Midgar had only lived on the upper plates. The bottom areas had been used to house machinery, warehouses, and anything else that could be put conveniently down there that no one had an immediate need for on the upper plates.   
  
The people had been given access to a sewage system, but all other forms of waste management had been nonexistent. That said, people had been allowed to simply throw their trash down into the huge storage areas below.   
  
There had been abandoned towns down there then, but soon Midgar was growing too fast to sustain itself. It basically suffered a cardiac arrest and thousands ended up loosing their jobs. With no money and no place to go, the abandoned towns beneath Midgar were repopulated with the fallen. The warehouses and storage areas that had once been the original reason for constructing the lower plates were moved and mako power was rerouted to service at least a few of the larger settlements. Train stations were built and supply lines made. And thus were the Midgar slums born. It was a whole different world from the upper plates, and no one knew that better than Vincent...and Martin himself. Vincent had been working the lower plates for Shinra for six years now at least.   
  
It was hard work down there. General dissension was getting to be pretty rampant. The tried and true method of negotiation employed by Shinra was being worn thin. Sooner or later something had to happen. Either the president needed the throw the people more than just a bone, or the people had to simply stop caring. Apathy was what Vincent hoped would eventually set in, but he wasn't holding his breath.  
  
With a long yawn Vincent stretched and threw himself onto the old couch that had come with the apartment. He was asleep in moments.  
  
Vincent came into work late the next morning looking much as he had the day before when he'd first stepped off the train. He rode the clear glass elevator up to the Turk offices on the 32 floor of Shinra HQ. Once again Vincent had to wonder why the architect of the Shinra HQ building had incorporated so many windows into the building design when all that was there to see was Midgar.   
  
Shinra HQ itself was a truly massive construction, a monolith of steel. The building itself made up a large percentage of Midgar's total size, looming over everything physically, just as Shinra itself loomed over the people both mentally and financially. This was the heart, lungs, brain, and mouth of Shinra, the arms and legs being Junon Harbor to the south.  
  
The elevator doors opened.  
  
It was kind of strange when you really thought about it. In most cases only the more unimportant offices were in the lower floors of the Shinra building. However, the Turks had to make due with the 32 floor which was stuck about in the middle of the building. A person did not even need clearance to get onto the "Turk Floor" as it was called. Maybe the executives thought that the Turk presence might help to unsure a friendly working environment. A working environment, that is, where no one complained about the company…ever…  
  
The truth was that most Turks could have cared less if they overheard someone putting down President Shinra behind his back. The Turks had better things to do than slap the wrists of insubordinate office workers. This didn't seem to matter though because everyone in the building still seemed mildly terrified of the Turk Floor.  
  
Vincent's office was Spartan in design to the extreme. A dusty desk, a computer that had never been used, a phone that almost never rung, and not a single window, all encompassed in four, bare, white walls made up the man's work area.  
  
A single manila folder was sitting on his desk when he walked in. Vincent slid into his office chair and opened up the yellow envelope. It was the report of the interrogation of the AVALANCHE operative taken into custody the other day. The entire report had nothing in it that caught Vincent's eye. The woman was very young indeed, 19 to be exact. Her name was Amanda Smithson and she came originally from the Sector 8 slums. No known family and no known education. She'd grown up in an orphanage till the age of 14 when she'd struck off on her own. Apparently she'd only joined AVALANCHE a few weeks before. Vincent got the feeling that he'd underestimated this AVALANCHE. They'd fallen for the bait alright, but they'd only sent in a nobody, some new member who knew nothing about them or their operation. This Amanda was useless to Shinra now. She knew nothing useful and Vincent could be sure that AVALANCHE would be sure to keep their distance from her for fear that Shinra was following her, or worse, that she'd joined the Shinra. She was going to be all alone in the Midgar slums again.  
  
It was times like these that Vincent's conscious squirmed from within the bowels of his ironclad soul. Vincent could hear it moving. Of course the voice was immediately silenced, but that didn't change the fact that it was heard.  
  
"At least," Vincent thought to himself, "she would probably get out of this alive."  
  
Vincent had killed before. He was paid to do, among other things, others in. Still, that didn't mean that he enjoyed it. The act had become a job for him, but the kind you avoid if you can.   
  
Vincent never went around killing anyone that got in his way. He was very practical and careful when he decided (or was ordered) to make a hit, and when he hit, it was with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel.  
  
The simple fact was that Amanda wasn't worth killing. It made more sense to let her go and keep her watched just in case.   
  
Vincent had nothing better to do and so he decided to make a quick check on the prisoner before talking to Martin about letting her go.  
  
He walked off down the hall. He passed the lounge and the printer room. He said hello to a couple of friends. It was a strange thing working with some of the most dangerous individuals on the planet every single day, and yet it had lost its novelty long ago. Besides, Vincent was one of them.  
  
He turned down a side hall and headed for a single door in the wall. That entire section of building was the interrogation center. Though the holding cells were kept above, this would be were Amanda was, and most likely where he could find Martin.  
  
The door was heavy steel and had a keycard reader next to it. Vincent slipped his ID through the reader and spoke his name into the little receiver above the reader. A click could be heard as the door unlocked. Vincent walked inside.  
  
As he'd originally guessed, Martin was standing there in front of the recording equipment and one-way glass. They could see the interior of the room beyond, but the occupants could not see in.   
  
In this case the occupants happened to be a very large man, probably from the Costa del Sol or North Corel region, and the girl Amanda. The man was heatedly interrogating her.  
  
"Why are you still asking questions Martin?" Vincent asked, "I thought that you'd finished the report."  
  
"President Shinra's orders," replied Martin. "This morning he sent me a memo asking that the prisoner be interviewed thoroughly one more time."  
  
"So…have you learned anything new?" asked Vincent quizzically as he folded his arms across his chest in a nonchalant sort of way.  
  
"Actually," replied Martin, "we have."  
  
Vincent waited in silence.  
  
"It seems that little Amanda in there listened in on part of a conversation that she wasn't suppose to," continued Martin. "She said she heard something about a meeting in the Sector 1 slums at some joint called Duel Horn Bar. We really don't know any specifics, but there might be at least one AVALANCHE leader there. If we can take in that leader, we should be able to take down at least part of this group's superstructure."  
  
"How'd you miss this in the first place?" asked Vincent.  
  
"Apparently when we brought her in here a second time she just cracked under the strain."  
  
"Hmmm…" said Vincent, "I've seen it happen before, I just never thought of her as the sort of person capable of going through even one interview without caving in."  
  
"Hey," retorted Martin, "you live on the streets most of your life you either get tough or you get dead."  
  
Martin knew too, and Vincent knew. After his parents were murdered Martin had spent most of his childhood and teen years living on the streets. He'd been hired once by the Turks to give them information on a certain crime lord. He'd done an excellent job and after that had been offered more and more work. Eventually he'd been accepted to take Turk basic training; he'd passed at the top of his class. After that came the Special Training. Once again he'd graduated at the top of his class. He'd taken specialized courses in assassination. Before the age of 23 he was working the streets of Midgar as the Turk's best hitman. He knew what he was doing in the slums because he'd grown up there. That was why he became so effective. That was why he got promoted so quickly. That was why he was in charge now, and anyone who was anyone in the Turks knew it well.   
  
"I would have waited around for you to do the interrogating, but we had to get it done and Hernandez was the only qualified one around," admitted Martin.  
  
Vincent ignored the comment, seeing no reason to reply to it, "so I guess I should get ready for a trip to the Sector 1 slums?"  
  
Martin replied with an affable grin on his face, "I guess you should." 


End file.
